


Unbound

by Zhie



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Bondage, Comfort Sex, Comfort/Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom!Finarfin, Family Drama, First Time Blow Jobs, Half-Sibling Incest, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Sexual Roleplay, Spanking, Stand Alone, This is all Morgoth's Fault, sub!Fëanor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 21:44:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20571401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie
Summary: Lies spread by Morgoth cause family issues between Fëanor and Fingolfin; Finarfin seems the only one who can calm the fire of Fëanor's heart.





	Unbound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyBrooke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyBrooke/gifts).

> This story was written before a 'live studio audience' in Erestor's Library, 9/7-9/8, 2019 (which can be found at https://discord.gg/SbQZmzg). Many thanks to everyone who participated, most notably the following:
> 
> LadyBrooke, for the whole headcanon to start with. I never considered pairing Fëanor and Fingolfin until last night. Thank you for this beautiful idea.
> 
> Narnvaeril, for copy/pasting the content for me into a google doc so that I could keep writing instead of hitting interruptions in the midst of the story to capture it in one place, and for beta reading after to clean it all up.
> 
> Moiety for the idea of 'silima-infused lube', which should appear at least once in this fandom, so, you're all welcome.
> 
> Gabriel & Narvaeril for the title suggestions (of either 'Undone' or 'Unbraided') which eventually lead to 'Unbound'. 
> 
> Tolkien himself, for providing such good dialogue for Fëanor. This could not have happened without some of those lines.

Fëanor slammed the door shut, then kicked it for good measure. No one was home; at least, his sons likely would not be. There had been a note, some mention of consoling Fingon and Aredhel (oh, to be a fly on THAT wall after today), and horses gone from the stable. There was whiskey in the parlor, and it was as good a friend as any. Fëanor went there now, and as he poured a drink in the darkness, paused upon hearing a voice. "I heard what happened."

The bottle was set down on the table with a heavy thunk. "I suppose you are siding with Ñolofinwë," snarled Fëanor.

Finarfin stood up from where he was sitting in the shadows and approached slowly, his boots clicking on the polished marble floors. The servants stayed out of the way; kept to themselves when their master was around, but their work and dedication was evident. Fresh flowers in the vases; the candles all new. Fëanor spun around and placed his hands on the table behind him as Finarfin said, "This is why it is best I be present when the two of you speak to each other. 'Get thee gone'? How well did you think that would go?"

Fëanor picked up the glass without looking down and lifted it up to drink before he answered. "It is either going to be me or him. You know this."

Finarfin watched as Fëanor drank again, and plucked the glass from his hand just as he moved it away from his lips. He sniffed it, and then set it down, out of the way. "I keep telling the two of you these rumors are false. Someone else is trying to get you to tear each other apart."

"And if I had evidence of that, maybe I would believe you," sassed Fëanor. "If you were there, you would have heard what our br--" Fëanor's features twisted. "Your brother and my half-brother had some very interesting words for our father."

"Alright. So Ñolofinwë went to father. Can you find fault with that? How many swords have you stockpiled? How great are the numbers of your followers? He would support you, you know. If it came to it, he will follow you, even with devotion."

"And what of you?" Fëanor stretched his arm to get the whiskey again. "Who will you follow? Who will be your master?"

Finarfin ruefully smiled, and then leaned in to whisper to Fëanor, "I think we both know the answer to that." Once more, he removed the glass from Fëanor and set it aside. His hand came to rest on Fëanor's shoulder, and he massaged it a moment, then moved his hand, fingers still pulsing, behind Fëanor's neck. "Did I come at a bad time?"

Fëanor's eyelids drooped slightly, and he relaxed his breathing. "The boys are out. Probably until tomorrow, at the least."

"Very good. They need not see you like this." Finarfin pulled Fëanor to him, kissing once to test the waters, and again more deeply when Fëanor did not resist. "To the bedroom, then," directed Finarfin, "and take thy due place."

A candle was brought by Finarfin; Fëanor cradled his whiskey with both hands. Just as they entered, Fëanor in front of Finarfin, the dark and dangerous elf turned around. Finarfin blocked the doorway. "What?"

"I will be right back," was all Fëanor intended to offer.

"Why?" Both Finarfin and Fingolfin were taller than the eldest brother, Finarfin moreso, but he slouched at councils or kept seated to appear less of a threat--to either of his older brothers. Now, in private, he stood straight, and kept the candle aloft. The glow alit Fëanor's face in the dark room, curtains drawn to keep out prying eyes.

"I thought I would check on the Silmarilli--"

"To get their opinion on the situation?"

Fëanor frowned. "You would mock me?"

Finarfin traced a single fingertip along Fëanor's cheek and down his throat. "Do you really need a Silmaril right now?"

"Maybe I do." Fëanor drained his glass and fiddled with it. "I need to forget about today. They make me happy."

"And I know something else that makes you happy." Finarfin's gaze was firm, yet compassionate. "I told my wife not to wait up for me."

“Did you?” Fëanor swallowed hard, the burn from the liquor irritating his throat. He looked at the flame of the candle, and then into Finarfin’s eyes. “So be it.”

Fëanor wrapped his hand behind Finarfin’s neck and returned the kisses from earlier. It was the last time he would take control this day. “I suppose you want me on my knees,” Fëanor flippantly said.

“Technically, I want you on your knees, and your back, and any other way I can get you,” corrected Finarfin as he set the candle upon the bedside table, then returned to shut and lock the door as a precaution. He then took the glass that Fëanor was still turning in his hands and set it beside the candle. He crooked a finger, and Fëanor crossed his arms over his chest. “Honestly, if you are going to be contrary, I will go. Ñolofinwë wanted me to have supper with –”

“Fine.” Fëanor came over in a huff and plopped down on the edge of the bed. “Cannot even brood in my own home,” he grumbled  "You can, but you will be alone when you do it." Finarfin sat down beside Feanor and stroked his hair, loosening his tight braids until both Fëanor and his hair were relaxed. Bound up, Fëanor's hair only came to the middle of his back, but freed from the intricately woven plaits, it hung down to the mattress.

Fëanor breathed easier and closed his eyes. "I am going to need more than your comfort and companionship tonight." Fëanor and Finarfin had a strange relationship. Ever since Nerdanel's departure, Finarfin had taken it upon himself to check on Fëanor regularly, and to give advice (when Fëanor would shut up long enough to hear it). Finarfin was patient; this much was evident in the personalities of his own children. But he was full of determination as well, and kindness, not pity.

These meetings had been little more than polite gatherings for tea or a lunch here and there. Most were in the presence of other family members. One day, Finarfin was late, and Fëanor was in his forge. The boys--they would always be boys to both of them--were out for entertainment. Finarfin sat in the warmth of the stone building while Fëanor hammered metal until it complied with his wishes, and the two of them talked for hours in a very open fashion. When Finarfin yawned, and Fëanor suggested it was late and set to shutting down the workspace, Finarfin stretched and made to see himself out. At the door, he wished Fëanor a good night, and then, said three unforgettable words: "I love you."

Every muscle in Fëanor's body had stilled; Finarfin felt he had ruined all he had worked for as Fëanor fast approached him with hammer in hand. It fell with a thud at the doorway as Fëanor stopped, invading Finarfin's personal space. "Come again?" he asked.

Finarfin tensed. "We--we are brothers," stuttered Finarfin.

"Half-brothers," corrected Fëanor.

And then he kissed Finarfin.

It was all a shock to Finarfin; he did not quite know what to think about it all. It was strange, curious, forbidden, and just a little exciting all at once. When they pulled back and looked at one another, Fëanor, for once, appeared startled. "You...you did not mean that as I thought you did." Complete embarrassment laced his voice.

Finarfin shook his head no. Or did he? But then, hands trembling, he lifted them to cup Fëanor's face, and again they kissed.

And several more times.

Before they undressed.

Finarfin had a long discussion with Eärwen when he got home.

Thank Eru she was an understanding and open woman. 

He loved that about her.

And in that forge, hours before Finarfin went home to Eärwen, while he and Fëanor were a tangle of limbs before the dying fire, he learned why he had been blissfully misinterpreted. Their father was loving, but a King--terms of endearment and exclamations of love did not fall from his lips. Fëanor had no memory of his mother having said such a phrase to him; in contrast, Indis made sure her children knew they were loved, and in return, they shared those sentiments with each other. But Fëanor refused to live with the greater part of the family after Indis married Finwë, and so he was not privy to these exchanges. That meant such a small phrase that means so much was heard by him only from two sources: His sons, and his wife.

Clearly, Fëanor did not interpret it the way he did from his sons.

And so now, when they parted in private, Finarfin always offered 'I love you' to Fëanor twice: Once for being his brother, and once for being his lover.

Finarfin was of a mind that Fëanor could use all the love he could get.

Their first few private engagements were similar. They would kiss, touch, wrestle, and play, and in the end, find release. Hands worked; so did rubbing against the other. Then, one night, Fëanor had an unexpected request.

"You should make me suck your cock."

Finarfin blinked. They were in Fëanor's bed; the boys were off on a hunt for the week. He knew this because Aegnor and Angrod had gone with them. Finarfin licked his lips. "Do...do you want to do that?"

Very slowly, Fëanor's head bobbed up and down. His cheeks were full of color, and not just from their activity.

"I would allow that," Finarfin said carefully.

The pause lasted for seconds, then minutes. Fëanor's words were soft, and Finarfin was torn between asking him to repeat himself, and kissing him for being so endearing in that moment. He chose the former first. "I need you to make me do it." Fëanor turned his head away whilst awaiting an answer.

Finarfin turned Fëanor's head back so that he could indeed kiss him. With lips still touching, Finarfin said, "Get on your knees on the floor at the foot of the bed."

Fëanor closed his eyes and spoke to Finarfin. They were words Finarfin would never forget, spoken in that same soft tone he rarely heard, and never outside of this room: "Thank you."

Finarfin closed his eyes, and felt the mattress and sheet shift. He counted to twenty, then ten more, then sat up. At the end of the bed, he could see Fëanor, watching, waiting. Finarfin crawled to the end of the bed and sat down, legs over the sides. When neither of them said or did anything immediately, Finarfin licked his lips, hoped Eärwen would continue to be as understanding as she had been, and tilted Fëanor's chin up slightly. "Before you suck on it, I want you to kiss it." Now where had THAT come from, wondered Finarfin.

Eyes cast upward at Finarfin, Fëanor bent forward slightly. He stretched out his neck and pressed his lips against the engorged tip. Finarfin groaned slightly as Fëanor did it again, and then moved down to kiss along the shaft and back up again. "Does that please you?"

"It pleases me very much, Kurufinwë." Finarfin guided Fëanor's head back again. "Lick it," came next, and Fëanor complied. "Oh...yes...so good, Kurufinwë, so good..."

When Finarfin demanded what Fëanor had requested, Fëanor answered with, "How are you to hear my cunning voice if your cock is down my throat?"

At first, Finarfin was about to argue that Fëanor had just initiated this new game--and then he realized, this was the game. Fëanor's own sass added to the excitement, for both of them, and Finarfin tangled a hand in Fëanor's dark hair to gain control over him, and then pulled him forward so that he was able to rub the tip of his erection over Fëanor's lips. "I will hear your voice again, Kurufinwë, for it will scream my name later--but only as I command it." Finarfin felt Fëanor tremble and he continued. "Now part thine lips, for I shall feel upon me your honeyed tongue, and will have you drink of me this night."

Fëanor's lips parted with a groan, and he took Finarfin into his mouth. It was a little at first, and slow, and a few times Fëanor coughed and had to begin again, but through it all Finarfin petted his head and offered words of praise. Then, as if he suddenly found the right angle, Fëanor grasped Finarfin at the waist and took him so deep his hair caressed Finarfin's thighs. 

"Oh! Oh, Kurufinwë!" Finarfin grabbed hold of Fëanor's shoulders and thrust his hips. Fëanor struggled a moment, but recovered and groaned his own satisfaction. There would be no screaming of Finarfin's name, for Fëanor rubbed against his leg, and climaxed well before Finarfin did. To his credit, Fëanor swallowed every drop and licked Finarfin clean. "So good," purred Finarfin as they reclined in bed again to rest. "Such a good boy." The words tumbled out before he could consider them. It might have been detrimental. Instead, Fëanor breathed those blessed words into Finarfin's ear again: "Thank you."

There was going to be a lot to explain to Eärwen.

Once again, she was an understanding and encouraging wife. Sometimes she would join them for tea or supper, and take walks in the extensive gardens of Fëanor's home or ride off to visit a friend to give her husband and brother-in-law time with each other. It could be as gentle as holding one another or as intense as it had been that first night Finarfin had Fëanor on his knees. And then came the month the boys went to visit their mother. Finarfin came and found Fëanor half into a bottle of whiskey that had been quite full before his sons departed. He would take no food, desired no conversation, and only sat in a chair and drank--and yet, when Finarfin made to go, Fëanor assured him he was welcome.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Finarfin finally asked when the silence of the hours wore on and the bottle contained an unhealthy lack of liquid (though, Finarfin had taken a glass himself at one point).

Fëanor rubbed his head. "I need to not think about everything."

"What can I do to help it?"

Once again, that soft voice emanated from his brother's whiskey-kissed lips. "Master me."

Willing to do anything to wipe away the worry lines and signs of distress from Fëanor's fair face, Finarfin asked, "How? As we have done?" He felt certain what Fëanor wanted was NOT as they had done previously.

It was not, and here they were again. Eärwen had been understanding of all of it through the years, and even a little worried today as the tale was told to her and her husband when Fingolfin burst into their home. Finarfin was asked to come with Fingolfin, to be seen publicly, and show a united front. Finarfin begged forgiveness, another time perhaps, and sneaked away as soon as he was able. Eärwen planned to cover for him, should anyone try to find Finwë's third son.

She really was a remarkable woman.

Fëanor tilted his head back and stretched his limbs. "They will put me on trial," he declared.

"Nonsense. A family dispute," reasoned Finarfin.

"They will do it anyway. They will make an example of me, because everyone knows who I am. Then they will chain me to a post in the square and announce all my transgressions."

"Doubtful," replied Finarfin, which was followed with, "Only I get to chain you up."

"I will be denounced, lose my crown to Ñolofinwë, and be made to be his thrall, to serve him in whatever ways he wishes."

A protective pang hit Finarfin, and he wrapped an arm around Fëanor. "There will be no more talk of this tonight," he declared. "You have had a long day, and I intend to take care of you, and that begins with a bath."

"Do you hint at something?" Fëanor narrowed his eyes.

"Actually..." Finarfin bent his head to sniff, but mostly, it was to nuzzle at Fëanor's shoulder. "You do stink, but really it is more to relax you."

Fëanor rubbed his face. "Not too much relaxing. I have desires unmet."

"Oh, I know," Finarfin said. "The chains, I think."

"Only the chains?"

Finarfin nuzzled Fëanor's neck and bit at the soft skin. "We might have time for more than that. Do you deserve it?"

"That depends on whether it is a thing to be deserved, or if in another case, justly deserved," Fëanor replied as he massaged Finarfin's thigh.

"Just for that, I think it is well deserved," Finarfin said.

Servants were plentiful on the estate, despite being out of sight when it was unnecessary for them to traverse the house while not directly engaged in duties, and that meant it was not long before Fëanor and Finarfin were bathing together in a large tub that could easily fit ten, for Fëanor liked his space. They did not converse much, except near the end, when Fëanor suddenly said, "It is not that I hate him, but that I hate her, and not even her, but father for doing so, and yet not, and then it comes back to him."

"Pardon?" was all Finarfin had to say.

Fëanor took a breath. It had seemed he labored a little for air now and then as they were washing, but it was more evident now as Fëanor spoke. "When father brought your mother home and told me I was to call her mother, I ran up to my room and locked the door. I felt so betrayed, and betrayed on my mother's behalf. I would walk the streets and people would always smile, that awkward smile, that smile that says 'we shall be cheerful though your mother is lost to you, and smile at you as if you are some three-legged cat everyone feels pity for and gives scraps to'. I thought at first that he only meant to make us a family, and then, they decided to have a child. And it was a girl. And I thought, fine, let them all be girls. And I prayed to the Valar and Eru on high, let them all be girls! Let them be maidens fair, of no threat to me!" Fëanor glared into the water. "And then Ñolofinwë was born and I left, and I have no intention of praying to any of them, curse them all!"

Finarfin cringed a little. Some of this he had heard before; some information was new. He waded closer and helped Fëanor rinse his hair. "I am no threat to you," he promised Fëanor.

Fëanor reached out to take Finarfin by the hand and kissed each of his fingers, then his palm. "I know," he said reverently. Then he pulled Finarfin closer. They were both wet, droplets of water covering them, but there was unexpected moisture building up in Fëanor's eyes. "I just want my mother back. Everything is so hard without her." A droplet fell and caused a ripple in the water.

Finarfin embraced Fëanor, and held him silently, let him drape his weight upon him. The loss of his own mother seemed unfathomable; to tell Fëanor he understood would have been a lie, for how could he? Finarfin ran his hand up and down along Fëanor's back, and then kissed his shoulder.

"I need all of it tonight," begged Fëanor. "I need these thoughts out of my head."

"I will take care of you," Finarfin said.

And just as he had the other times, Fëanor answered in that not-oft heard peaceful tone: "Thank you."

Obtaining the chains had also involved Eärwen. While there were many things produced in the forges of Fëanor, chain was not often made, and therefore, the creation of it would have led to the attention of at least one of his sons, if not all of them. It was risky enough to make the cuffs for his wrists (though convenient, for measurement's sake). Eärwen knew of the merchants who sold rope and chain and other supplies needed for ships, and with a story about a boat--and perhaps a little flirting--she managed to procure more than enough for what Fëanor and Finarfin had in mind.

It was kept under the bed, in a wooden chest, with a lock that Finarfin had the only key to. That part was not his idea; Fëanor found it rather thrilling to know that he did not have instant access to the treasures the chest held. Finarfin opened the lid now and found everything in order. The chain was neatly stored, the fabric that wrapped around Fëanor's wrists to protect them from marks was folded in a stack, and there was one thing more.

It was a wooden paddle with a surface as big at Finarfin's hand. He held it up for Fëanor to see, and Fëanor said, "You must. I need all of it. Please."

Meticulously, Finarfin set about preparing the room. There were plants hanging from the ceiling, an addition to the room after they started these ventures. The two on either side of the bed were removed and placed neatly on the top of the desk by the window. A length of chain was attached to each hook, and the iron cuffs for Fëanor's wrists twisted and dangled as the chains swayed a little from the ceiling. Then, there were the ones attached to the headboard, the restraints a little wider. Finarfin set the pile of fabric on the bedside table, and the paddle next to it. All the while, Fëanor watched, swaddled in the towel from his bath, sitting on the chair from the desk. "Do not coddle me tonight," said Fëanor. "I want to feel the metal on my skin."

Finarfin was a little uncertain of this, and took the time to braid Fëanor's hair loosely, one plait on either side, left unbound, just enough to keep it out of the way. "I do not want to bruise you in places others might see," whispered Finarfin as he crouched down so that he could wrap his arms around his brother.

"I need to know how it was for him," Fëanor returned. "If they throw me into the Void, they will not worry about bruises or comfort."

This had been a common theme throughout the development of whatever this relationship was that they struggled to give name to. Fëanor's first encounter with Melkor had spawned an unhealthy obsession with the dark Vala's past, and Fëanor had focused quite heavily on the accounts of Melkor's captivity. He had asked Finarfin to recreate the experience, down to the type of fabric used to blindfold him. It was slightly unnerving, but the velvet wraps around wrists and ankles provided a physical distancing from what Fëanor wanted to accomplish, and was a long-time compromise between them. Finarfin nuzzled Fëanor's shoulder. "They are not going to throw you into the Void for this," he said with conviction.

"Someday, they might." Fëanor turned his head a little. "I need this tonight more than anything. Please?"

The embrace tightened, and Finarfin said, "I shall not deny you."

As Finarfin made to stand up and lead Fëanor to the bed as he had many times before, Fëanor did not follow, but instead clutched Finarfin's hand and pulled him back. "Will you be Tulkas for me?"

Finarfin stepped closer again, held fast by Fëanor's hand. "What exactly do you ask of me?" he wondered, though he was fairly certain he knew already.

"Subdue me before you place me in chains. As was told in the Great Tales of the Time Before."

The next breath Finarfin took was shaky, but he gave a nod. While they were both formidable in hand-to-hand combat, Fëanor would pool his strength into a short attack, while Finarfin had endurance. He worried a little that, even though this be play, they might still require a healer, and so he said, "Do not overexert yourself."

"But you will? Wrestle me, as Tulkas did to him?"

Finarfin looked at the door to the closet. "Do you want to start in there, and we can pretend I am dragging you out of the labyrinth he built?" Finarfin refused to say Melkor's name aloud. His mother had once told him saying it gave the Vala renewed power (and his older siblings swore to say it thrice would call him to you, and though Finarfin believed very much that he was being teased by Findis and Fingolfin, he never dared say the name for fear they could be right).

"The closet is a mess," admitted Fëanor.

Finarfin bit his lip. He fleetingly recalled mention of Fëanor shoving anything of Nerdanel's still within the house into that closet. "The bed, then," said Finarfin.

"It is where we are going to end up anyhow."

A small smile pulled at Finarfin's lips. Despite all that had happened, the fact that Fëanor could still snark at him was comforting. He pulled Fëanor to his feet. The towel was around his shoulders, and Finarfin yanked it away. It was thrown aside with flourish and Finarfin swerved around so that he had Fëanor between himself and the bed. "Now I have found you, and you will come with me," he declared, hand around Fëanor's wrist.

Fëanor yanked his arm away and took a step back. "Never," he growled.

They were close enough to the bed, and was not the point of all this to be as realistic as possible without getting hurt (too badly)? And so, instead of leading Fëanor back, Finarfin pounced on him, and took Fëanor by surprise, with a gasp of both shock and desire.

Both of them scrambled to get onto their knees first, and Fëanor was faster and intended to pin Finarfin down, but Finarfin used his prone position to his advantage and used his legs to force Fëanor onto his side. They grappled with each other, rolling back and forth as one gained the advantage over the other, and just as quickly, lost it. Fëanor fought like a cobra, with unexpected quick strikes, and Finarfin was a bear, powerful but a little clumsy, far less finesse.

As expected, Finarfin needed only to wait for Fëanor's energy to drain, and then he began to keep the holds for longer, until he heard his brother's breathing labored. Finarfin pinned Fëanor on his back, and then recalled the purpose, and flipping him easily onto his stomach. He brought up one knee and pressed it down between Fëanor's shoulder blades. "Do you yield?"

"Nay," ground out Fëanor, and he flailed an arm behind in an attempt to grab hold of Finarfin.

Finarfin grasped Fëanor's arm with both of his hands. He lifted his leg for a moment, pinned Fëanor's hand beneath, and dug his knee a little further into Fëanor's back. "Do you yield?"

Fëanor grunted and grabbed at the corner of the mattress with his free hand. His head was turned to the side, and he tried to buck Finarfin from him. "Nay!"

Something registered with Finarfin that Fëanor was not saying 'no', and that the Valar, the few times he had heard them speak, were always formal. He stretched out, managed to keep one of Fëanor's kicking legs down with his free foot, and grabbed Fëanor's other arm. He held it down, and finding he only had one arm left and could not reach the second kicking leg, pressed his elbow against Fëanor's cheek, nails of his hand digging into Fëanor's neck, shoulder, whatever he could reach. Fëanor let out a frustrated grunt. "Dost thou yield?" questioned Finarfin a third time.

Fëanor's face was shoved into the blankets, pressed against the mattress, his breath causing the fabric to flutter. Only his left leg, uselessly attempting to do...something...was left free, and Fëanor made one final futile attempt to throw Finarfin from him. It failed, and Fëanor smiled. His leg relaxed, still and extended, and he took a moment to enjoy the freedom he felt in being captured. "I do so yield," he finally said.

Carefully, Finarfin shifted his limbs so that he kept Fëanor's legs pinned down and released his arms. With a burst of strength, he hoisted him up by the shoulders, bringing him into a kneeling position, their bodies pressed close together. They were both tense; something about this time seemed more real than the others.

'Maybe this is the last time.'

Finarfin pushed away the thought. He, his eldest, and his youngest seemed to have certain perceptions about things many others did not. In fact, he was almost positive that Artanis knew what was going on, from the looks she gave Finarfin when he would return after extended stays with his brother. Instead, he focused on the restraints, positioning Fëanor's left arm first, and locking his wrist in place. Fëanor did struggle a little, but all for show, nothing that would cease Finarfin's preparations. Once Fëanor's right arm was extended above him and locked into place, he bowed his head in submission, for they had learned early on that arms restrained worked as well as arms and legs.

Unsure of how far Fëanor wanted this fantasy to go, Finarfin knelt with his legs between Fëanor's bent knees. Fëanor had his legs spread wide in anticipation of the chains, but Finarfin took a moment to consider how to proceed. Did Fëanor still wish to play these roles, or was the rest to be as it had been in times past? Finarfin placed his hand on Fëanor's lower back and moved it up until it was behind his neck, then moved his head so that they could see one another. "Are we Vala or are we Elves?" he questioned.

Fëanor's response did not initially offer an answer. "I am a great and terrible power, brother."

Finarfin held Fëanor's gaze and considered. He was not supposed to be Tulkas now, he realized. Melkor would not have appealed to Tulkas; it was Manwë he came to. His brother. Finarfin wondered if this had been the fantasy all along. They were certainly suited for it; Fëanor had dark hair, long and straight, and his features handsome to the point of beauty, including his stormy gaze. Finarfin was the opposite, with fair hair and darker skin, a smattering of freckles over his shoulders and nose, under his eyes, which were not grey as the rest of his siblings, but pale blue and reminiscent of the sky. Just like Manwë Sulimo.

And now, Finarfin was thankful for perceptions, for he now perceived in Fëanor's mind his true desire, and with some worry, Finarfin prayed Eärwen could bear this final test. "You have before you a choice," said Finarfin with care, and he did try his best in that moment to mimic the sound of Manwë's voice. "Surrender to me, or you will be surrendered to the Vvoid."

"What difference would there be...my lord." Fëanor's words were bitter. "Either way, a thrall I shall be."

"Not a thrall to me, no." Finarfin set his hand at Fëanor's hip and felt the shiver shake his body. "Surrender to me, and you shall find salvation in submission. Deny yourself, and be condemned to an eternity of loneliness."

Fëanor looked down and then turned his head on his own accord. Breaking the act for a moment, he whispered low, "You sound just like him."

Finarfin's stomach fluttered. "Is it...alright?" he worried.

"It is perfect." Fëanor stretched, and they kissed twice. "You know exactly what I need. You always know."

"I try," whispered Finarfin back.

Fëanor closed his eyes, and upon opening them, returned to the fantasy. "Why? So you can tame me? Make me some pet, to sit at your feet?"

"No, I will not break you," promised Finarfin, his hand moving around to tease Fëanor's skin, close to his mark, but just out of reach. "It is your choice alone, what you decide or no. I can, of course, offer a taste of what that choice would mean." Finarfin was about to reach out for the paddle, but he was getting ahead of himself. Fëanor's legs were still had freedom of movement, and the blindfold was not yet present. The blindfold first, Finarfin decided, and he brought it around so that he could display it before Fëanor as an offering in his hands. "To dull your sight, that you may focus only on what you feel and hear."

"I thought you said you were offering a taste," spat back Fëanor as the dark fabric was lifted.

Finarfin paused, then continued to darken Fëanor's sight. A moment later, he took hold of the loose ends of fabric to tilt Fëanor's head back and kissed him deeply, thrusting his tongue in and out of Fëanor's mouth multiple times. "And taste," said Finarfin, who had a hint of the whiskey from earlier on his tongue.

Finarfin  next  locked the ankle restraints next, and for good measure, he adjusted them. He heard Fëanor groan as his legs were parted further, exposing him. "And now, a test of my power."

Fëanor snorted in return, but said nothing.

The paddle was retrieved, but Finarfin placed it on the bed, leaning against Fëanor's knee. Then Finarfin stood back, admiring his work. Admiring his brother. When had this become normal in his mind, and did it matter? He felt blessed, to be given such trust, and to be of such great service. Pride and love swelled within him, and for a moment, he just wanted to hold Fëanor and fall asleep with him. Instead, he walked around the bed and reached out to run his hand along Fëanor's arms and legs. Then he worked beyond to touch his neck and chest, to his back, and torso, stopping just short of the erection that jutted up, untouched.

"Will you not strike me, my lord?" gasped Fëanor when the soft touches diminished and ceased.

"Only if you ask it of me," Finarfin said in a solemn voice.

"I thought this was to be a test of your power."

"It is," Finarfin said. His fingers reached out, three of them, a light stroke to the underside of Fëanor's shaft, and he cried out. The chains clinked as his body trembled. "I need not discipline you to show you my strength."

For a full three minutes, Fëanor waited to feel Finarfin's touch. When it did not come and he could not tell where his brother stood, he cried out, "You torture me!"

"No, my brother. I offered you a test. You must now choose--which path would you take?" Finarfin cupped Fëanor's chin. "The void...or me?"

"You." Fëanor's voice was airy, but the words came without hesitation. "I crave you. I want you. I need you."

Something about those words made Finarfin light-headed. What followed next would have driven him over the edge had he not been patient.

"I love you."

It took a few deep breaths for Finarfin to center himself. He blinked and found tears in his eyes. Before him, Fëanor tensed.

"Sorry, I thought--"

And Finarfin sprang upon him, silenced him with a fervent kiss, and ran his hands all over Fëanor's body. Fëanor's hands were restless; it was obvious he wanted more contact, but took what he could get at the moment.

When they parted, Finarfin rested his forehead against Fëanor's, and they both panted, until Fëanor said, "I thought I said something wrong."

"No. You said everything right." The paddle was still close at hand, though it had slid down onto the blanket. Finarfin picked it up and used it to trace along Fëanor's skin. "Just you and me now," he said. "Just us. No pretending."

Fëanor's chest heaved as he listened. He nodded. "Please, Arafinwë...I still need it...I still need you."

Finarfin kissed Fëanor again and moved around behind his brother. "I know. And I love you, too, Kurufinwë." The paddle was drawn back, and the first smack caused the chains to rattle. Fëanor gasped and arched his back. Finarfin rubbed the pink mark with his other hand.

"Please! Again!"

Each strike was accompanied by enough time between for touching and kisses, though Finarfin did not place his hand on either of their desires, nor did he press close enough to Fëanor to build friction. Increasingly, he wondered how far Fëanor really wanted him to go, but the topic came up after a particularly forceful blow that Finarfin scolded himself for internally, despite how it affected Fëanor. He fisted his hands and cried out Finarfin's name, and followed it all with, "I am so close, but I want for us to do this together."

Finarfin ran his tongue along the edges of his own teeth. "Hands or mouth?"

Fëanor swallowed hard. "I want something I should not dare ask."

"Ask." Finarfin gave another swat with the paddle.

Fëanor grunted. "Will you take me?"

Finarfin bit at his lip. He struck again, and as Fëanor gasped, he said, "Beg me for it."

Restrained as he was, Fëanor's mobility was limited, but he used what he could to maneuver himself closer. He edged backwards on his knees until his arms were painfully stretched, and arched his back enough so that he could rub his red rear-end against Finarfin's erection. "Put me in my place. Enter my body and claim me. Make me scream your name as you pour yourself into me."

Sharply, Finarfin sucked in air and tossed the paddle aside. "Oil--where?"

Fëanor snorted. "Who knows?" Then, more seriously, said, "Balm for my shoulder in the desk. Top drawer. Right side."

Another kiss was exchanged before Finarfin retrieved the glass jar. It was exactly where he was told it would be, easy to find due to the strange luminescent properties of it, and was hastily brought back to bed. While this particular version was new to him, preparation before consummation was not, and he dipped a finger into the greasy concoction. When he had enough on his finger, he smeared it over the inviting cleft, and then slid it within with surprising ease.

"Oh, fuck!"

"Yes, eventually, but I need to prepare you first," Finarfin cautioned.

"I know that," snapped back Fëanor, and Finarfin withdrew his finger with a frown. "That was...just...not what I expected."

"Good or bad?"

"Both."

Finarfin sat back on his haunches and poked at the balm with his already greasy finger. "Should I stop?"

"Now? Do not dare!"

"But if it is bad--"

"It burns."

"That sounds horrible."

"It is the balm," said Fëanor with some degree of certainty. "Accidentally used it with Nerdanel once. Made me sleep on the couch."

Finarfin tried not to smirk. At least Fëanor was still blindfolded. "Then why did you suggest it? I will get something else."

"I was curious--and there is nothing else, not in here." Fëanor arched his back again. "It is not unbearable. The rest is good."

"The rest?"

"Feeling you inside of me."

Finarfin had been poking at the balm as Fëanor spoke to him. He could feel a slight warming on his skin from it. There had to be an irritant from internal use, and he further checked by asking, "Are you sure this is safe?"

Fëanor groaned and said, "Is anything we have been doing safe?" He shook an arm to rattle the chains. "It it becomes too much, I remember the word for you to stop."

It was not often spoke of, and never used, but there all the same--insisted upon by Finarfin, no matter how much Fëanor always told him it would never be too much. The fact that Fëanor brought it up eased Finarfin's mind, and he once again breached with his finger, working it slowly in and out, wiggling it with some resistance. Fëanor was making some noises Finarfin had never heard--though to be fair, most of the time when they were nearing the end of these encounters, Fëanor's mouth was busy with other things. The paddle was out of reach, but Finarfin decided to try an experiment of his own, and gave Fëanor a smack on the side of his ass while his other hand continued to prepare Fëanor to receive him.

A second finger proved a greater challenge, though it also brought forth another selection of new noises from Fëanor. Three seemed an unlikely endeavor, and so Finarfin simply added more balm. Fëanor hissed as a fresh wave of discomfort from the components of the balm hit him, but he pressed back when Finarfin began to withdraw. "More," begged Fëanor.

"I do not think I can," apologized Finarfin as he made the attempt of three fingers. The balm was slippery, and the passage tight. Awkwardly, he failed.

"You," clarified Fëanor. "I want you. Please. I want to feel you."

Finarfin dipped his fingers into the jar and scooped out a dollop of balm. He smeared it over the head and length of his erection, and almost immediately began to feel the warmth and tingle penetrate his skin. This alone might have sufficed, but Finarfin wanted what Fëanor pleaded for, and he grasped Fëanor's hip to steady himself. His other hand directed the tip of his desire into the slick passage, and he pushed in.

"Wait!"

Finarfin stilled immediately. So much for the word; both he and Fëanor suddenly forgot whatever it was in this moment. "Sorry!" And Finarfin started to pull out.

"No! No, wait! Just wait!" Fëanor struggled against the restraints, helpless to explain with anything more than his voice. "Need to wait. Adjust. Big." Fëanor took another moment, and then his head lolled to the other side and he said. "Good." He clenched his muscles, and Finarfin groaned. "More. All of you. Please."

Finarfin firmly grasped Fëanor's hips and guided himself in the rest of the way. He held the position and waited as Fëanor moaned and went slightly limp. "Good?"

"Good. Please. More. Please!" Fëanor sounded on the verge of frustration, and Finarfin wanted this to be anything but for him. Before the jar was lost in the sheets, Finarfin took another scoop of it and reached around to share with Fëanor what he was experiencing. He could tell from the deep, guttural moaning that Fëanor was feeling the same sensation he did from the balm. As he stroked, Finarfin became aware that there were some very fine particles within the mixture, and that these made imperceptible scratches, which likely caused the balm to radiate inward. No wonder it had nearly been too much for Fëanor; Finarfin kissed the back of Fëanor's neck and rolled his hips, dragging his length out and then in again. Fëanor whined. Finarfin rolled his hips again.

"Please...unblind me! I want to see you! Do not let me be in the Void without you!"

Finarfin cursed under his breath as he fumbled with slippery fingers to unknot the fabric that covered Fëanor's eyes. The cloth was thrown off to some unknown place, and immediately Fëanor twisted and tried to better reach Finarfin. They kissed hungrily, eyes wide open, and Finarfin thrust deeper and made Fëanor groan into his mouth. With practice, Finarfin matched his movements, so that he plunged into Fëanor as his fist around his brother's shaft reached the root, and his fingers would brush the tip as the head of his own erection nearly left Fëanor's body.

Fëanor spilled first, seed spurting out onto the blankets and dribbling over Finarfin's fingers. His body relaxed, though not the passage within, which Finarfin was now free to focus upon. He was not far behind, and fulfilled Fëanor's request, releasing deep inside of Fëanor a warm flood of his desire.

Normally, Finarfin would release Fëanor from his bonds, then immediately take down the chains and hide them away quickly. As he went to the chest to retrieve the key, Fëanor stayed him for a moment and bid him to return. When Finarfin stood at the foot of the bed looking at him, Fëanor asked, "What do you see before you?"

Finarfin swept his gaze over the sight before him. The single candle in the room provided enough light for him to perceive the stickiness of Fëanor's inner thighs and the glisten of moisture upon his body. His eyes were a calm grey, though the wisps of hair that had come free from the braids stuck to his forehead and disobediently at angles in recognition of the storm that had passed. "I see you, Kurufinwë."

"But what do you see? Not who," corrected Fëanor.

Finarfin chewed at his lip, unsure of what Fëanor expected.

"Do you see a king, or a thrall?"

Ah, so that was it. "I see a man who may one day become king, though it would aggrieve me how that would come to be. All the same, I see a man whom I would pledge my loyalty to."

Fëanor bowed his head. "Thank you."

When the bed was stripped, their bodies cleaned, and the implements all put away, they laid together with limbs entwined. Only as Finarfin was about to fall asleep did Fëanor speak to him. "I am afraid."

"Of the consequences of your actions and words against Ñolofinwë?" Finarfin resumed his duty of stroking Fëanor's hair, which he had unbound again once the room was in order.

"Of the darkness. Of the Void. Of being alone."

To think of Fëanor being scared of anything seemed so foreign to Finarfin, and yet the prospect both saddened and comforted him. Sad, for there were little more than words for him to console with. Comfort, for he finally felt, in that moment, that as great as Fëanor was, he was still only a man like he. "You will not be alone. I am with you."

Fëanor kissed Finarfin's brow. It seemed there was more he wished to say, but instead, he pulled a pillow closer and nodded off.

  
  


Epilogue

"We have sworn, and not lightly!" The words spoken by Fëanor were loud and clear, and traveled out over the mass of the Noldor assembled before him from where he stood on high. Finarfin was there, and Eärwen beside him, despite the great hurt in her heart over what had befallen her kin on the shores. Their children, determined on the march, stood around them, and they all listened and looked about as Fëanor rallied everyone to continue. "Therefore I say that we will go on--" A great cheer arose from the crowd, and while he could not hear the exact words, he could tell that Fëanor's powerful voice was convincing many to stay the course.

He intended to do as much as well, and expected to renew his pledge of fealty when Fëanor left his perch and walked through the followers, congratulating and motivating them, clasping arms and pounding long-time supporters on the back. When he reached the contingent that included Finarfin, he took more than a moment before his half-brother and sister-in-law. Neither Eärwen nor Fëanor would look into the eyes of the other, but Finarfin held out an arm to his brother and said, "As sworn to you before, I pledge my loyalty to you."

Instead of a clasp of the arm, Fëanor drew Finarfin into an embrace. Unexpected words tickled Finarfin's ear. "Turn back," whispered Fëanor.

"But--"

"If we all leave, we lose hold here. Someone must rule as king--I know none better than you. Beg pardon; you are well-liked, and did no wrong." There was one thing more, though it need not be said:  _ And you are not Fingolfin. _

“I want to be with you!” Finarfin’s words were perhaps a little louder than he wished, but with the crowd around them, they were unheard by all but Fëanor.

“You will be with me. Always, in my heart. I love you.” Fëanor stood back up straight, unwilling to linger too long, lest suspicion fall upon them. "Do this for me, brother."

Finarfin lifted his chin, blinked, and nodded. "May you find what you seek, brother."

Fëanor gave a sharp nod and continued through the crowd, away from Finarfin.

Eärwen placed a hand upon her husband's shoulder. "He will need you when he returns," she said.

Pain flashed in Finarfin's eyes as he turned to face the way back to Valinor. "He will never return," Finarfin whispered as he took the first sorrowful step back to Valinor.


End file.
